


Dangerous Beyond Comprehension

by foolhearty



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Attraction, Caleb "Tiefling Magnet" Widogast Strikes Again, Dangerous Flirting, F/M, Femme Fatale, Fic is likely to be noncanon after ep27, Fic originally publishing post ep27 pre 28, I love Ophelia Mardun, Languages, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:06:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolhearty/pseuds/foolhearty
Summary: He watches Ophelia descend the staircase, same as she had before: unhurried, with heels clacking on each step rhythmically. She is dressed today in what appears to be a blue variant of the attire she’d been adorned in before, her figure clear through the hemmed lines of her coat. Caleb is left wondering distantly how she walks with such a confident stride in such restrictive clothing, but he doesn’t have to wonder for long, because he knows how she does it.He remembers how she does it.Trent had taught the three of them - he, Astrid, and Aeodwulf - to walk in such a way once.





	Dangerous Beyond Comprehension

**Author's Note:**

> So, as usual for me this isn't beta read, so I'll likely comb over it in the next day or so and fix any blatant spelling errors and typos, but the tense shifts are part of my Token Foolhearty Charm (also known as: Laziness) so learn to love them kids.
> 
> Also: for the purposes of this fic, and because I highly distrust most online translation services, I've written Zemnian in italic text rather than having whole strings of German written out. I felt it would be less offensive than pretending I know the language, and that it would make for easier reading overall. So: whenever you see whole sentences of dialogue italicized, just be aware that it's meant to be Zemnian.

“Back so soon, I see. And unaccompanied? Do you feel that is wise?”

The guards at the gate had been equally distrustful of him during his approach today as they had been a few days prior, upon the Nein’s initial meeting with Ophelia Mardun. This time had been far more concerning to Caleb, if only because he was alone: where before five different guards had been aiming five different crossbows at five different individuals, today all five bolts were aimed at him and not all lacking an eagerness to see him stop breathing.

Channeling a confidence of his youth, a confidence he’d learned by watching his father leave for his tour of duty and return home victorious and eager to see his family, Caleb had regained entry. He had to enter, after all: he had a victory of his own to report.

“I come bearing good tidings, my lady. Our group has seen to the deaths of the thorns in your side, as agreed upon. The job is done.” He watches Ophelia descend the staircase, same as she had before: unhurried, with heels clacking on each step rhythmically. She is dressed today in what appears to be a blue variant of the attire she’d been adorned in before, her figure clear through the hemmed lines of her coat. Caleb is left wondering distantly how she walks with such a confident stride in such restrictive clothing, but he doesn’t have to wonder for long, because he _knows_ how she does it.

He _remembers_ how she does it.

Trent had taught the three of them - he, Astrid, and Aeodwulf - to walk in such a way once; Trent had taught them to wear their uniforms with pride and to never disgrace the meaning behind those uniforms with so much as a slouch or shrug out of place. Caleb had taken such pride in his pristine clothing, had endeavoured to keep himself put together so that everyone who saw him would see him as he longed to be: brave, a young, up and coming executioner, intelligent beyond his years and ready to fight on behalf of his empire. He had wanted everyone to look at him the way he knows he must be looking at Ophelia now: with an inability to look away.

Caleb licks his upper lip as she finishes descending the stairs, aware with every fiber of his being that he is being watched in turn - not merely by the guards still stationed at his back, but by her. Two bright, seemingly ethereal eyes bore into him and Caleb is left with the feeling she she can see everything that he is and has ever been.

“ _You come alone to tell me this? Your friends appeared quite intent on your last visit to request more of me than the Gentleman’s deal offered._ ”

The transition into Zemnian does not take him off guard, not this time, but he does give him pause. Where during their last visit her usage of it may have been strategic, meant to either frighten him or show power, it lacks a direct intent now as far as Caleb can see. She can hide nothing here by speaking it; she speaks it, her guards all speak it from what he has discerned, he himself speaks it.

She gains nothing here, while a chill runs up his spine and gooseflesh forms at the nape of his neck.

“ _They are tending to fellow compatriots of ours that the Iron Shepherds took from us prior to our first meeting with you. We... had our own dealings with them to see to an end. I come alone so that our wounded can be in the company of their friends._ ” Caleb pauses, then smiles sheepishly, feeling he has to admit to more. “ _I did not think it would be wise, my lady, to approach your manor with three faces you did not recognize in tow._ ”

“You are a smart boy.”

Again, she flips tongues once more to Common, but smiles despite the ice in her tone. She gestures vaguely with a hand and the guards at his back disperse slowly, save for the ones that Caleb can only assume are meant as door guards specifically. Ophelia heaves a sigh as she turns on her heels and gestures once more - this time, to Caleb himself. She beckons for him to follow.

“Come along. I wish to discuss your recent days exploits in a more comfortable environment. We will seek refuge on the upper floors and you will leave when I am content with your tale.”

This is a very bad idea. Caleb has been overly aware of how dangerous this woman is from the moment he laid eyes on her. Caleb has known how to spot a dangerous person for nearly all his life; some are dangerous for their wildness, but predictable enough to hedge a bet against. And then there are women such as this, who Caleb knows well: women who can utter a single word and send the world around them crumbling at a whim, women who can end lives with the flick of a wrist whether they be wielding a weapon or not. Following such women is dangerous beyond comprehension to some.

Caleb steps forward.

“Ja. Yes. Of course, my lady.”

He doesn’t need to ask her to lead the way because she’s already doing so, striding ahead of him as she climbs the stairs. She is without fear, knowing he will follow if he wants to make it out of the building later at all. She is the very type of dangerous that Caleb cannot deny. He enjoys a calculated risk, when there is at least some level of forethought placed into it. But there are exceptions. Once she’s climbed a handful of steps, he follows at a more casual pace. The last thing he wants is to trip on her stairs, or worse: over her own two feet, should he follow too closely behind.

“You are a polite man.” She chats idly, refusing him even a passing glance over the shoulder as she does so. “But did not catch your _name_ before. You merely invoked our mutual friend’s.”

“Caleb Widogast.”

“Caleb,” she parrots back, sounding amused. “By meaning of _‘dog’?_ ”

“By meaning of ‘ _faithful’_.” He responds, with more force to the rebuttal than intended. He surprises himself, and has to take a breath when she finally cocks her head back to steal a look at him. “My mother and father felt a name for being faithful was strong.”

“And here we both are, through fortune or failures in life - far from the Zemni Fields.” Ophelia sounds content, she sounds almost pleased. “Far from the heart of our empire, even, here in Shady Creek Run.” Caleb can practically hear the smirk in her voice, now that she’s turned her attention back to where she’s walking. “Faithful indeed, aren’t we? You and I?”

He parses her words in real time, dissecting them for their hidden meanings, inspects each word and fragment for the information that has been placed into them. His eyes narrow as he stares into her back, as if he could mimic the way she herself seemed to read people’s souls at a glance. He can’t, of course - but someday, someday...

He breathes a sigh, doing his utmost to sound at ease and noncommittal. “We differ, my lady. Where you have found a great deal of fortune, I am a homeless man who can scarcely afford to feed myself most evenings, let alone my cat.” He shrugs, though she can’t see it. “The paths of our differing lives have led us to strange places. I cannot say I regret mine any longer.”

As they reach the top of the stairway, Ophelia is silent, waving for another guard to take the lead and unlock a door about halfway down a long hallway lined with art: some are portraits, similar to the ones their group had seen before, portraying people and visages none of them recognized, but others are simply art for art’s sake, depicting beautiful, if not somewhat gloomy, fields and villages, lit by faint moon and lantern light.

These, Caleb recognizes, and is hit with a pang in his heart. Were he a weaker man, he would have reached out to touch one and attempt to teleport mindlessly into it. None of these paintings depicted his hometown or it’s farms, but the resemblance is so genuine that a long silent part of Caleb mourns for his own long gone childhood. Life as a young boy with a duty to work the land and a father intermittently away at war and a mother who worked herself far harder than she deserved had not been easy, but it had been happy. Caleb tears his eyes away from the paintings on the walls before the familiar hot, tight feeling of tears can begin welling in his eyes.

Ophelia leads him into the now unlocked room, leaving the guard stationed outside the door after they enter. “You speak well, for one who crawls so desperately in his own skin.” She comments, stepping aside for him to take stock of their new location of conversation.

It’s a far cry from the office or study he had been expecting. On the wall to the left of them is a desk, yes, but directly opposite it on the right side of the room is a bed, large and lavishly adorned in deep red sheets and black pillow cases. Caleb loses his breath as he hears, in the background of his panic, the sound of a key turning in the lock just beyond the door. She truly intends to keep him here until she’s content with their conversation?

“ _You are dangerous woman._ ” He blurts, eyeing her with wide lids, his blue eyes stuck on her as she takes her place atop a cushion. There is a recessed window along the wall with a seat carved under it. It might be something nice, were the curtains not drawn to block out all semblance of light. He himself remains planted with his feet firmly against the ground by the door.

To her credit, Ophelia laughs.

“ _And you were likely a dangerous man once._ ” She croons, “ _I think he’s still in there somewhere. I do hope I am able to meet him someday._ ”

The Zemnian rolls off her tongue as beautifully as it had the first time they’d met, but hearing her speak full on sentences is a wonderful thing. It has been so long since he’s heard the language spoken so beautifully, and it has been longer still since he’s heard it spoken without someone else in the room passing judgement on it. So many in the Empire find Zemnian to be brutish sounding and rough, not realizing that to those raised to speak it? It is a language that can only bring memories of home and warmth in the face of long, cold nights.

“ _Come, Caleb Widogast. Sit with me._ ” Ophelia pats a cushion near to her own. “ _I would hear the tale of how you and your lot felled the Iron Shepherds on my behalf, before I agree to journey with your group to Zadash as per our agreement._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ foolhearty.


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